


the usual routine

by orphan_account



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one sided frank/gerard</p><p>he swallows down his confessions and his spit</p>
            </blockquote>





	the usual routine

And here I am, stupid for thinking that maybe the lump in his pants is the same one as the lump in my throat.

Here I fucking am, swallowing that lump down back into my lungs to push the confessions and the acid deeper.

He's drunk now, sprawled out across the bed like some oily ragdoll and mumbling shit that probably doesn't even make sense to him, but he's rubbing at his crotch and I'm sure he doesn't understand it either. It's nothing, though. Always nothing and he'll fall asleep soon. And soon, soon he'll be out like a lamp with his arm tucked under his head and his mouth'll be open, giving him that same fresh cat shit tinge to his breath in the morning but I'll still wanna kiss him. I'll wanna kiss him until our lips are numb and we've gotta swallow our own spit.

I wanna kiss him right fucking now.

He says something to me, something nasally and high-pitched, but I don't know what it was. He's still palming at himself like an animal, but he's slower and sloppier, less deliberate and he fondles the front of his fucking jeans stares at me with his tongue lolling out of his drooling mouth. But, I know it's not an invitation. It never is. It's an inadvertent insult. I keep straining to try and pick apart the words, completely silent as he comes in his own pants like some preteen boy confused over a little bump n' grind at the middle school dance. Precious. I might be blushing but I can't tell. I'm embarrassed, but this shit happens all the time. Given the fucking circumstance, anyone else would have their junk out in seconds and mount his ass like a fairground pony, but not me. It's not an invitation but a sign warning me of heartbreak. This feeling isn't mutual.

I wish it was me, though. I wish it was my name rolling off of those lips and that tongue instead of him whimpering that he's just so fucking sleepy now. He's so tired now. The hotel room is so hot and I'm getting sticky and I bet he smells rancid but I wanna just curl up next to him, I wanna crawl across the crusty carpet and climb in bed with him and kiss his face, get up off of this couch and puke up every little word I've been choking back. He's asleep now. It's our usual routine.

I wait a few minutes until he's out cold, half of his face smashed into the pillow with his hair in a greasy, clumpy mess circling around his chubby face like an oil-slicked halo. He's still got his makeup on and he looks sick. It's impossible to trace where the red circles and the real bags under his eyes meet, but I keep staring anyway. He's cute. He's so fucking cute and vulnerable, a sweaty little angel, only he wasn't really. He was a grown man, capable of drinking himself into half of a fucking coma- which was exactly what he did. I stood up slowly from my spot on the couch and stepped across the room, stopping at the side of his bed where he lay all strewn out and exposed. Real fucking apprehensive, I lean over a little bit and kiss him on the cheek not nestled in the starchy hotel pillow. His eyelids flutter some and my heart skips a beat, so I jerk away.

“...Night,” he mumbles, rolling onto his side.

That's all I get, I guess. I'm asking too much from him. I'm asking for him to fucking acknowledge me. He doesn't have to love me, he doesn't even have to like me, just notice me when it's not so convenient.

But it's too much.

Defeated, I retreat with my tail between my legs back to my spot on the couch.

It's the usual routine.


End file.
